


A Confidence Sans Bound

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Imprisonment, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is languishing in a prison in Myanmar and Peter comes to rescue him. Tag to "What Happens in Burma..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Confidence Sans Bound

Light. He was aware of a light in the room. Light meant guards and boots and cattle prods. He feared light now. He turned over to face the wall; it hurt less if they got him across the back.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he stiffened, curled up into a tighter ball, his arms protecting his head. The hand tried to move him, turn him over, but he resisted.

“Neal, hey, Neal,” a voice said. An American voice.

He chanced a glance under his arm and closed his eyes again. “Not you,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s not you. It’s never you,” Neal moaned and shut his eyes tight.

“It is, Neal. It’s me, it’s Peter.”

Neal shook his head in denial. “No. You’re only in my head. You’re always just in my _head_.”

“Not this time,” Peter said, finally succeeding in turning him over. Neal kicked out, struggled to get away, but Peter held his wrists fast. He switched his grip to Neal’s shoulders and held him down, moved a knee between his legs, pinning him. “Neal!” he said, his voice gruff with effort and emotion, “I’m here to bring you _home_.”

“Peter?” Neal said, finally recognizing him. “Peter!” He went limp suddenly, his body wracked with sobs.

Peter slid to a sitting position and held Neal crookedly across his lap, whispering to him, “You’re safe. You’re safe now. You’re going home.” 

It took Neal several minutes to calm down, but when he did, Peter helped him sit up and handed him a bottle of water. It had been so long since he’d seen clean water, he almost didn’t know what to do with it, but then he drank it down greedily, the water streaming down into his beard, his clothes. “How long?” he said.

“Nine months.”

“I lost track. Is it Spring?”

“Yeah, and the city is beautiful,” Peter said gently. “You can paint when we get home. Listen, we’ve got to get out of here. Can you stand?”

For the first time, Neal noticed that Peter hadn’t come alone. There was a man with him who kept looking shiftily over his shoulder. Neal recognized him as the doctor who’d inspected him when he’d arrived. He recoiled, afraid to trust anyone, and it didn’t escape Peter’s notice. “Don’t worry about him. He’s being paid well. Come on.”

Peter crouched beside Neal, his hands under his arms, and helped him to his feet. But Neal’s legs could not carry him; he sagged against Peter and would have fallen if his strong hands weren’t supporting him. Peter took Neal’s left arm and slung it over his shoulders. He nodded curtly to the doctor to lead the way and they followed, moving as quickly as they could. Neal was reminded of similar circumstances at the Howser clinic, and how strong he had thought Peter then, helping him to safety. How long ago was that? He couldn’t remember.

They were soon in the courtyard of the prison, which had once been a royal palace. Neal noticed a lightening in the Eastern sky which meant it was close to dawn. They paused. Neal sagged against Peter, shaking from the effort of their escape. “Come on, just a little farther, buddy.”

Neal didn't have the energy to speak, but he knew he couldn’t make it. He shook his head. Peter held him closer, bent and slid his arm behind Neal’s knees. He lifted him as if he weighed nothing – and for all Neal knew, perhaps he did, but it was a long time since he stopped caring about his appearance. Peter gestured with his head to a delivery truck that was parked in the shadows. It pulled up in front of them and Peter carried Neal over to the back.

There were several burlap sacks of rice in the back. He lifted Neal in and climbed in after him. “We’ve got to hide you until we get to Rangoon. We have a safe house there.” Peter was piling the rice around Neal, and finally covered him with some empty sacks. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. We’ll be there in a few hours. You understand?”

Neal managed a nod and closed his eyes.

“Yeah, get some sleep,” Peter said, resting a hand atop his head before covering it up with another pile of empty rice sacks.

\----

The next thing Neal knew, the truck stopped and strong arms were once again lifting him. When he opened his eyes, he was looking at the broad expanse of Peter’s chest as he carried him into a building. He placed his hand over Peter’s heart, felt it beating, and knew this was no dream and he was really safe. He closed his eyes again.

He was taken to a small, whitewashed room where he was laid atop a bare mattress. Water was running.

“What happens now?” Peter was saying.

“We’ll bathe him, dress him. Delouse,” a woman responded in accented English. She pronounced it “baze,” and Neal thought she must be French. “Can you get him to sit up?”

Neal felt an arm lifting him, and his clothes were slowly removed.

“Jesus, what’s that?” Peter exclaimed and Neal looked down at himself. His ribs and back were dotted with the bruises and electrical burns the guards had delighted in inflicting, some of which had become infected.

“Cattle prods,” the woman informed Peter, with disgust. “The prisons here are notorious. We must bathe him first, then we’ll treat his injuries. Will you carry him over to the tub?”

Neal looked up at Peter as he lifted him again. He was tan, Neal noticed, but he looked leaner, his jaw line more pronounced, and his hair was longer, brushing the top of his shirt collar. Neal felt like a child being carried around so easily, but his mind was too fuzzy to think much about it, or to be self-conscious about his nakedness. He hissed as the tepid water of the bath made contact with his wounds, but he sat against the wall of the tub, unmoving, willing himself to relax. The soap smelled of lavender, he thought, and he shut his eyes again. Gentle hands cleaned him and he soon fell into a doze.

When he opened his eyes again, Peter was having a disagreement with the woman. Neal was still in the water.

“He must be deloused!” the woman was saying. _Delouzed_. “It’s the easiest way to do it.” Neal saw she had a pair of battery-powered hair clippers in her hand.

“There must be another way?”

She gave him a look as if he was insane.

Neal cleared his throat and they looked down at him. “Now is not the time for vanity, Peter.”

“Fine, then, I’ll do it myself,” Peter muttered and took the clippers from her. Neal watched locks of his hair fall into the bath and float on the surface of the water, like logs in a river, flowing away downstream.

\----

After he was clean and shaved, Neal was taken to another room in a different part of the house, shirtless, a pair of linen drawstring pants barely held up by his hips. Peter helped him to sit on a cot in the corner and sat beside him, dabbing antibiotic ointment onto his wounds, which he then bandaged carefully with gauze and tape. Neal reached up and rubbed his shorn scalp. “How do I look?”

“Like Hoffman in _Papillon_.”

“That bad?”

“Worse, actually. I’m afraid I make a poor barber. Good thing there are no mirrors here,” Peter joked. “Think you might eat something? There’s some rice over there.”

“I’m so tired,” Neal said, and it was true. He had never been so desperate for sleep before in his life.

“I know, but some food will make you feel better. I promise.”

Neal nodded and Peter fed him a few bites of food and some water, then let him lie down. “Shut your eyes, Neal. I’ll be here when you wake.”

\----

He woke sometime later; he didn’t know how long he’d slept. He knew it was likely very warm in the room, he could feel the closeness of the humid air, but he felt chilled. He shivered, wrapped his arms around himself.

“You’re awake?” said a familiar voice. Peter got up from a metal chair set against the room’s tiny window and came to sit on the edge of the cot. He had some pills and a cup of water.

“Antibiotics. Can you sit up?”

Neal struggled into an upright position, and the room tilted. He sagged against the wall for support and bent his head. He felt Peter’s hand on his neck. “Come on, you have to take them. Your burns are infected, and they don’t have IVs here.”

Neal nodded and took the proffered pills and a sip of water. Maybe it was his diminished energy, or just the horse-sized nature of the pills, but when he tried to swallow them, they stuck and he choked and gagged until they were finally expelled from his throat. He coughed for several minutes, his throat in agony from the effort. He looked up at Peter when he stopped, his eyes streaming. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Peter smiled grimly and held out another pair of the pills. “Try taking some water first, and tilt your head back,” he suggested, and Neal did as he was told. This time, the pills went down.

“Gah!” Neal gasped. They still made his throat hurt. He lay down again, curling up on his side facing Peter. He was still cold, and hugged his arms to himself. “What is this place?”

“A safe house. Kind of a Burmese Underground Railroad for political prisoners.”

“Political prisoner? Me?”

Peter nodded. “They helped us find you. They have a man inside the prison, and were keeping an eye on you until we could arrange for your release. All the proper bribes had to be arranged.”

“Bribes? How much-“

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But…”

“Don’t,” Peter said, and placed a soothing hand on his arm. “You cold?”

Neal nodded, suddenly unable to control the chattering in his teeth. Peter got up and was out of sight for a few seconds, then returned with a coarse, heavy blanket that he draped around Neal.

“Don’t suppose I can talk you into eating something?” he tried.

He shook his head; the very thought of food was nauseating. In the prison, they were fed only once a day, usually about a cup of bug-infested rice in a thin vegetable broth, and sometimes there were undercooked lentils with it too. He’d learned to survive on it, but lately had not been able to eat. He reasoned the infection was to blame, but the guards had merely “sold” his food to other inmates in exchange for sexual and other favors. Neal was thankful he had never had to stoop to such a desperate level.

“Fine, I’ll give you a pass this time. But you’ll have to eat something soon. We can’t stay here, and you’ll need your strength for the days ahead. If we’re lucky, we’ll leave for Thailand in a week.”

Neal nodded, and felt his eyelids were getting heavier. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

\----

Somewhere far off, a man was screaming. It was a frightening sound, because the man was not screaming as a result of being tortured or beaten; he screamed because he had gone insane. He’d lost all hope of ever leaving the prison, and Neal always thought the screams were the sounds his soul made as it lost him. The sound was mournful, raging, bereft, and he heard it every night.

He heard the scream again and it was closer. Neal startled from his dream, realized it was he who had been screaming. There were hands on his arms, strong hands. He looked up, half crazed.

“Neal!” a man said.

Neal could not see his face; it was hidden in shadow. For a moment, he was overcome with fear, frozen. The man shook him again and a beam of moonlight fell across his face. “Peter?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

Neal noticed the relief on Peter’s face. He looked tired, too, like he’d just been sleeping. “What happened?”

“You had a dream, buddy. A bad one.”

“I’m sorry. You were sleeping. I’m sorry.” He rubbed at his eyes with his right hand. When he opened them, he saw tears in Peter’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I – I’m sorry it took so long to get to you. But the State Department was no help, and we ran into one dead end after another. This shouldn’t have happened, you were basically kidnapped. You shouldn’t have had to go through this.” Peter turned to the side so Neal wouldn’t see his tears, his anger.

Neal reached his hand out and squeezed Peter’s knee. “It’s not your fault, Peter. None of it is.”

“I could have done more. Sooner.”

Neal shook his head. “You’ve done so much. I will never be able to repay you, Peter. I owe you everything.”

“Well, thank me when we’re out of this hell hole and back in New York, OK?”

Neal smiled.

“Maybe try to get some more sleep?”

Neal nodded and closed his eyes.

\----

Neal slept for most of the next two days, and Peter was there whenever he was awake. His fever made him restless when he was awake, his recent experience contributing a feeling of apprehensiveness and paranoia he couldn’t shake, and Peter propped him up and spoke to him in gentle tones whenever he was feeling fearful. Peter also made sure he took the medication they’d been given for him, and that he was fed and clean.

Neal suspected the antibiotics were old and expired, as they hadn’t made a dent in controlling the fever that wracked him. But he ate as much as he could when Peter fed him; he owed Peter as much – to regain whatever strength he could so that he would not be a burden on the journey ahead.

On the evening of the second day, Annelise, the French woman who had helped them when Neal arrived, came to see them. She beckoned Peter over to the doorway, wanting to spare Neal the details of what she had to say, but Neal’s hearing was as acute as ever, had perhaps grown more so in the last few months.

“We have to move you. We think the police may be looking into us. I don’t have confirmation, but we can’t take any chances.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. “ _Can_ he be moved? He’s still so sick.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see another option.” She glanced over at Neal, met his eyes unwaveringly. He saw the regret there that she couldn’t help more. “We’ve arranged passage on a river barge out of the city. From there, the private charter will meet you. I’ve brought you both a change of clothes.” She gave him a duffel bag that sat just outside the doorway. “I’m so sorry, my friend.”

Peter rested his hand on her shoulder. “There’s nothing you could have done. You’ve been such a help, Annelise. Thank you.”

They changed into cargo shorts and sandals. Everything was too big on Neal, so Peter gave him his belt. Neal donned the sunglasses that were in the bag. “How do I look?” he said, managing a smile.

“Like the Crypt Keeper on vacation,” Peter remarked. Living under near-starvation conditions had sapped Neal’s already lean body of much of its muscle mass, and he suspected Peter had a hard time looking at him.

“That’s low,” he joked, making light of it.

“Calls ‘em like I sees ‘em,” Peter said and handed Neal their forged passports.

“Niels and Pieter Bakker. So, you really think they’ll buy a story of two Dutch tourists on holiday?” Neal said, sitting down on the cot, already winded.

“Do we have much choice? We’ll say you’ve been ill, that you’re going to the islands to recuperate.”

“Well, it _is_ best to begin a con with a kernel truth, that’s what I always say.”

“Is that what you always say?” Peter asked, amused.

“Allegedly.”

They were safely stowed away in the hold of an immense river barge before dawn. The captain escorted them personally, providing as much as he could for their comfort during the short trip, handing Peter chocolate bars, bottled water and a satellite phone in case it was needed down the line.

“You’ve certainly made a lot of friends over here,” Neal said. He was continually amazed at the level of assistance they were encountering and wondered what it all must be costing Peter.

“It’s easy when you know how,” was all Peter would say. He helped Neal sit down on a straw pallet on the floor. Neal was feeling stronger this morning, whether it was the drugs kicking in, or all the rest, he wasn’t sure. He hoped it would last.

He was eventually lulled to sleep by the sounds of the barge being loaded above their heads. He woke when the massive engines kicked in, and found he’d been leaning against Peter, his head on his shoulder. He sat up. “Sorry,” he said, wiping a bit of drool from his mouth.

Peter smiled. “Don’t be. I’ll take your drool on my shoulder any day of the week, if it means you’re safe.”

Neal’s heart filled suddenly with emotion and he could feel hot tears pricking his eyes. “Peter, I…words can’t say…”

“I know,” Peter said, cutting him off. As ever, he seemed uncomfortable with any outpouring of emotion.

“Just…thanks for coming for me,” Neal finally managed.

Peter threw his arm around Neal’s shoulder briefly, surprising him. “I’ll always come for you, Neal,” he said, looking straight ahead of them. He pulled his arm back and laid his hand in his own lap.

“Never leave a man behind?”

“Something like that.”

They arrived in Botahtaung before sunset, the barge anchoring just offshore. The plan was for them to be taken to shore as soon as it got dark, where they’d be met by the crew of the boat that was to take them to Thailand.

The transfer went off without a hitch, and by midnight, Peter had Neal ensconced in a tiny private cabin on a chartered yacht. Peter had practically had to carry Neal on board, but despite his exhaustion, the excitement and tension of the day made it so that he couldn’t fall asleep. He lay listlessly on the bed while Peter reviewed their paperwork obsessively, as if he could improve the forged documents if he found a flaw.

“This is some well-executed escape plan,” Neal commented. “Never let it be said that Peter Burke does anything half-assed.”

“Oh, I’m full-assed,” Peter said with a slight smile. He came to the bed and felt Neal’s forehead with the back of his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Neal said, cutting his eyes to the side.

“Don’t lie to me, Neal,” Peter said, and it was more a plea than anything else. Neal looked up at him; Peter met his eyes and didn’t look away. He reached his hand out and rubbed Neal’s close-cropped hair, a regretful look on his face. “This won’t work if you aren’t straight with me. I need to help you, to get you through this.”

“Why?” Neal asked before he knew what he was saying. He was honestly curious.

Peter’s eyes bored into Neal’s. “You don’t know?” he said, barely concealed hurt in his eyes.

Neal immediately regretted the question, knew he’d crossed a line, but had little idea which one. He clutched at Peter’s wrist. “I’m sorry. I…don’t know what I meant.”

“Yes, you do. After all we’ve done together, meant to each other, do you really not trust-”

“It’s not about trust, Peter. I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Well, then what?”

Neal found he couldn’t say, couldn’t admit it out loud.

“What, Neal?” Peter insisted.

“I don’t deserve it,” Neal finally admitted, and rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Neal –“

Neal held his hand up. “Not _all this_ , Peter. What have you risked to come here? What has it cost you, your career? Why would you do this for me?” Neal could no longer conceal the worry he felt for Peter, could no longer just accept what Peter had done with no comment. The consequences if they were caught were immense, unthinkable. And Peter was willing to do it all, risk a life sentence in a Burmese prison - or worse - _for him_.

Peter grasped Neal’s shoulder, shook him, and Neal saw a flash of anger in his eyes. “Because you matter to me, dammit! Do you not _get that_?”

“I don’t.”

Peter could not conceal the pity in his eyes. “They really did a number on you, didn’t they? The guards?” he asked.

Neal looked away.

“Did they tell you how worthless you were? How no one cared? It’s what they do, Neal, how they break a prisoner. Did you believe them?”

Neal shook his head, but Peter’s words were true. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, he’d come to believe the horrible things the guards had said to him over the last months, because he didn’t really see another option.

“Their torture is more than just physical, Neal,” Peter said quietly.

Neal stayed silent, watching Peter, unwilling to admit it, but knowing the truth of it. Peter saw it too, he thought, which was why he changed the subject. “How are you feeling?” he repeated, his tone gentle.

“My back hurts,” Neal replied.

“Let’s change your bandages. Annelise sent some supplies.”

\----

When Neal woke the next morning, the sun was shining through the cabin’s porthole. He still felt the oppressiveness of illness pressing against him, like a heavy thing on his chest, in his head and stomach, but to see the bright sunlight filled him with a hope he hadn’t dared to feel in months. The hope that he’d see home again, live through this.

The door opened and Peter entered, carrying a tray. “You’re up,” he said, eyebrows raised, a slight smile on his face. “I brought breakfast. The first mate is also a chef!”

Neal struggled to sit up. He leaned his head back against the headboard of the bed, and watched as Peter set the tray on the foot of the bed. “You don’t say.”

“We have croissants, and fruit and yogurt. What would you like?”

Neal’s stomach rebelled at the thought of any food, but again he felt that he ought to eat something, if only for Peter. “A croissant, I guess.”

Peter placed one of the pastries onto a plate and added a few slices of pineapple and mango beside it. He sat next to Neal and held the plate out for him. When Neal reached for it, his hand was shaking. Peter pressed the plate into it and held Neal’s hand steady with his other hand, then guided it down into Neal’s lap. “Any better today?”

“Not much,” Neal said truthfully. When he sat up, he felt dizzy, and the fever that had become such a constant persisted. “I’m not sure those antibiotics are working.”

“Maybe they’re the wrong kind,” Peter suggested.

“Or they’re old,” Neal added, “but there’s no harm in taking them, I suppose.” He broke off a piece of his croissant and put it into his mouth, because Peter was watching him. If he wasn’t so nauseated, he’d have enjoyed its buttery delicacy as it dissolved on his tongue.

But Peter seemed satisfied now that he’d made the attempt, and handed him another pair of pills and a cup of coffee to wash them down with – milk, no sugar, just as Neal liked it. Neal raised the cup to his face and inhaled; he hadn’t smelled coffee in so long, and this reminded him of the rich brew he’d enjoyed while traveling in France long ago. He closed his eyes and reveled for a moment, then used it to wash down the more than likely useless pills. He finished the coffee and managed to eat nearly the entire croissant, Peter eyeing him like a hawk the entire time.

“Guess what they have here?” Peter said, taking Neal’s cup and plate from him. “A bathroom.”

Neal noticed for the first time that Peter’s hair was wet.

“Think you can stand a quick bath? Always makes me feel better when I’m sick - to be clean.”

Neal had to agree.

An hour later, Peter helped him up onto the deck. He was clean and wearing new clothes, and it almost made him feel normal, if not entirely well, but he felt better than he had in weeks. Peter settled him into a chaise under a large canvas umbrella and took a seat in another that was in the sun.

“What now?” Neal asked.

“Well, we’re supposed to be two Dutchmen on vacation. Let’s relax,” Peter suggested, and lay back in his chair.

The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion, the two of them relaxing on deck, Neal dozing off and on. If he concentrated, he could believe they really were on vacation. The yacht’s captain, Captain Gil, and his wife and first mate Karine joined them for a light supper late in the afternoon, and told outrageous stories of the excesses of some of the pop stars and politicians they’d hosted on this boat and the others they’d worked over the years and around the world. Peter leaned back with a beer, an amused grin on his face, and Neal thought he looked relaxed for the first time in days.

But Neal noticed something on the horizon; another boat seemed to be heading their way. He pointed it out to the captain.

“Ah, spit!” Captain Gil swore in his broad Australian accent. “Myanmar Coast Guard. Was hoping to avoid them this time out.”

Neal could feel the blood drain from his face, and Peter looked similarly stricken.

“No worries, gents. It’s routine in these parts. I’ll take care of it.”

It took a few minutes for the boats to align, and Peter and Neal watching wordlessly; they did not have to voice the concerns that were pressing on their minds at that moment. The boats were tied together and a man in a uniform boarded. They watched as Gil talked with the newcomer, pointed at them a couple of times. At last, the captain returned to them. “They want to see your passports.”

Peter pulled them from the pocket of his cargo shorts and rose. Neal rose too, took them from him.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked.

“I’m going to go talk to the officer.”

“You’re in no condition – “

“But I’m our best bet to get out of this. Do you speak Dutch?”

“Do _you_ speak Dutch?”

“ _Een beetje_. Don’t worry, it’s in the bag.”

Neal walked over with the captain and flashed a smile at the officer.“ _Goedenavond_ , good evening,” he began in a perfect Dutch accent. He proffered a hand, which the man shook. “I understand you’d like to see our papers,” he said and handed the passports over.

The man inspected them closely, and glanced from the photo to Neal more than once. “This does not look like you,” he said suspiciously; his English was better than Neal had expected.

Neal ran a hand over his head. “I’ve been ill. My brother thought a trip to the islands would restore me.” He coughed all over the man, who took a hasty step backward. Neal bent over, still coughing, and nudged into him with a shoulder, grasping his shirt. Before long, the man was patting Neal on the shoulder ineffectually. Neal straightened himself and gave another smile. “I’m afraid my body has been slow to heal, but your beautiful country has been like a balm to my soul.”

The man smiled at the compliment.

“We are headed to the Mergui Archipelago, have you been there, Captain?” Neal asked the man.

“I am a lieutenant,” the man corrected Neal, but smiled at the respect Neal was paying him by assuming he held a higher rank. “I was born in Lampi. It is quite beautiful there – good sport fishing.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’ll be much use when it comes to that,” Neal said deprecatingly. “But my brother loves sport, don’t you Pieter?” He gestured for Peter to join them.

Neal wished he had a camera to capture the look on Peter’s face – part confusion, part amazement. “Brudder?” he addressed Neal, attempting to mirror the accent Neal had affected.

“I was telling the lieutenant here that you would enjoy a bit of sport fishing when we arrive in the islands.”

“Oh, _ja_ ,” Peter managed.

“And he was saying how beautiful Lampi is, that it is the jewel of the Andaman Sea.”

The man beamed.

“Will you stay and have a drink with us, Lieutenant?” Neal said.

“I am afraid I cannot,” he said with actual regret. “I am on duty.”

“Ah. Well that is regrettable.” He snatched Peter’s wallet from his back pocket. “Before you go, sir, a token of our thanks,” Neal said, and handed him about fifty Euros in small bills.

“I couldn’t,” the lieutenant said, folding the bills up.

“For your inconvenience,” Neal said, pressing another twenty on him.

The officer shoved the money into his pocket and went to leave. “I wish you safe travels, and good health,” he said.

“ _Mijn luchtkussenboot zit vol paling_ ,” Neal said with a smile and a wave. Soon, the two boats were disengaged, and the coast guard pulled away.

“ _Mijn_ what in the what, now?” Peter asked, turning to Neal.

“My hovercraft is full of eels,” Neal translated. “Didn’t think they’d be into Monty Python down here.”He turned to walk back to his seat and a sudden wave of dizziness overcame him. “Peter – “ he managed to say before everything went black.

He was still on the deck when he came to, so he couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes, but Peter hovered over him, his lips in a tight line of worry. “What happened?”

“You passed out,” Peter said. He helped Neal sit up and pressed a glass of water into his hands.

“Too much excitement, I guess.”

“They won’t bother us again,” the captain assured them. “That was some performance, mate.”

“Thanks.”

“Just part of the old Caffrey charm,” Peter said proudly. He helped Neal to his feet and back to the chaise.

\----

Later that night, Neal woke feeling unbearably hot. His skin felt like it did not fit him properly - tight, jumpy. He threw the thin blanket off of himself, sat up and stripped off his t-shirt. He fumbled for the glass of water that sat on the table beside the bed, but knocked it over. It hit the floor and shattered. Neal stared at it.

“What is it?” Peter said, stepping into the room.

“The glass broke,” Neal said, pointing. He was unaccountably upset by this. “I wanted some water and I knocked it over.” When he looked up at Peter, he could feel tears filling his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, crouching in front of him and staring into his face. Neal found he couldn't quite focus on Peter, who was feeling Neal’s face and forehead with cool hands. “You’re burning up!” He stood, left Neal’s field of vision, so Neal continued to stare fixedly at the broken glass and the puddle of water that had splashed across the floor.

When Peter returned, he had several wet washcloths and towels with him. He laid one on the back of Neal’s neck, and made him lie down. The others he laid on Neal’s forehead and chest, then he cleaned up the broken glass as best he could and sopped up the water with a dry towel. At last he sat beside Neal and took his wrist, feeling for a pulse.

“How’s my heart?”

Peter dropped his wrist. “Beating fast. I don’t think that’s a good thing. Stay in bed.”

“OK.”

“I think your fever’s worse.”

“I think you’re right.”

“We’ll be in Phuket in two days. Can you hold on that long?”

“I’m so hot,” he said, and he knew it wasn’t an answer to the question he’d been asked. What the hell was wrong with his brain?

“Jesus, Neal. Don’t die on me, OK?”

Neal looked up at Peter and saw at once the vulnerability there, the worry and sorrow. Neal realized how good a job Peter had done of masking it over the last few days, but now those masks had fallen away, and Neal could see the fear there, too. He understood, finally, what had driven Peter to risk everything to find him, and he suddenly felt a gratitude so intense it hurt his heart. Here was his dearest and most trusted friend, sacrificing so much for him, and he knew it would take the rest of his life to repay even a fraction of what he owed Peter.

“I promise,” Neal whispered, and closed his eyes, and his tears ran down into the pillow.

\----

The next two days passed in a blur of sickness and fever of which Neal was only barely aware.

In a dream at one point, he was talking to Peter, who wasn’t listening. “Peter,” he said. “Peter, Peter, Peter.”

“Neal.”

He felt a hand on his chest and opened his eyes.

“You were talking in your sleep.”

“Well, you weren’t listening.”

“What were you trying to say?”

Neal thought a minute. “I don’t remember. But it was important.”

\----

“Wake up, please wake up,” Peter pleaded, his voice urgent.

Neal moaned.

“Neal?”

Neal opened his eyes. The light hurt.

“What happened?” He had never in his life felt as weak as he felt at that moment. It was difficult to keep his eyes open.

“You had a seizure.”

Neal realized he was in the bathtub. “I’m wet.”

“Gil thought it would get your fever down.”

“Did it work?”

“Yeah.”

Neal went back to sleep.

\----

“We’ll be arriving half a day ahead of schedule, the wind has been at our backs. I’ll call you when we’re closer.” Neal could hear Peter talking, having a conversation, but he didn’t hear the other end of it. When he opened his eyes, Peter stood with his back to him, in the passageway outside the cabin, talking on the sat phone he’d gotten from the barge captain.

“Make sure there’s an ambulance,” Peter continued. “He’s bad…. Yeah, if you can bring a doctor along, it’d be great. Thanks for all your help. Can you call my wife?... Tell her I love her and I’ll see her soon. _We’ll_ see her soon. OK…OK…’bye.”

He glanced back at Neal as he ended the call. “You’re awake.” Neal could only look at him; he lacked the energy to even speak. “We’ll be there soon. In the morning, OK?”

Neal closed his eyes.

\----

“Come on, buddy,” Peter was saying, nudging at Neal. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Neal opened his eyes and looked up at his friend. He felt so weak, it almost made him want to cry again. Peter helped him sit up and pulled a shirt over his shoulders. He laid a hand over where Neal’s shoulder and collarbone were protruding. “Boy, El will have a fun time fattening you up again,” he said gently. Neal managed a smile as Peter eased his arms into the sleeves. 

When he was dressed, Peter lifted him easily and carried him up the narrow stairs to the main cabin. He laid Neal down on the couch and went to speak with Captain Gil briefly.

“Thank you for everything,” Neal could hear Peter saying. The two men clasped hands, and Peter returned to Neal. He lifted a throw from the back of the couch and draped it around Neal’s shoulders. Neal hadn’t even realized he’d been shivering.

After a few minutes, Karine poked her head into the cabin. “The ambulance is here,” she informed them.

Peter once again hefted Neal into his arms and moved carefully out of the cabin. Gil helped to carry him off the boat, and Peter walked with him in his arms the remaining distance to where the ambulance waited at the end of the pier.

Neal laid his head against Peter’s shoulder, and suddenly remembered something. “Peter,” he said, clutching at Peter’s shirt, “I remembered what I wanted to ask you the other day.”

“What is it, buddy?”

“Are we safe?”

Peter turned his head towards the ambulance, and Neal’s eyes followed. Next to a waiting gurney, accompanied by an attendant and a doctor, incredibly, incongruously, stood Sara Ellis. Neal wondered, fleetingly, if she'd been the one Peter was talking to on the phone, and what hand she had in helping Peter rescue him. He thought he'd have a few more debts to pay before this was over. He found he didn't mind any longer.  
  
Peter smiled. “Yeah, we’re safe, Neal. Safe at last.”

\----

Thank you for your time.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I paid extra for the artistic license on this one. I don’t know if there’s an underground railroad for helping people escape from Myanmar, and I don’t know if the route Neal and Peter take is realistic, or even if there is a Myanmar Coast Guard. Everything is based on a bit of Google-fu and some maps. (Though I did have occasion to stay on a yacht similar to the one in the story – for business, yikes, I can’t afford that!) But if anyone wants to let me know of any details that are inaccurate, or which might enrich the story, feel free to PM me.
> 
> Title is a quote from William Shakespeare’s The Tempest.


End file.
